And there you have Mr. Victor Stanworth, at present of Layton Court, in the county of Hertfordshire. A man, you would say (and as Roger himself was saying in amazed perplexity less than an hour later), without a single care in the world.
But it is already ten minutes since the breakfast gong sounded; and if we wish to see for ourselves what sort of people Mr. Stanworth had collected round him, it is quite time that we were making a move towards the dining room.
Alec and Barbara were there already: the former with a puzzled, hurt expression, that hinted plainly enough at the inexplicable disaster which had just overtaken his wooing; the latter so resolutely natural as to be quite unnatural. Roger, strolling in just behind them, had noted their silence and their strained looks, and was prepared to smoothe over anything in the way of a tiff with a ceaseless flow of nonsense. Roger was perfectly well aware of the value of nonsense judiciously applied.
“Morning, Barbara,” he said cheerfully. Roger made a point of calling all unmarried ladies below the age of thirty by their Christian names after a day or two’s acquaintance; it agreed with his reputation for bohemianism, and it saved trouble. “Going to be an excellent day, I fancy. Shall I hack some ham for you, or do you feel like a boiled egg? You do? It’s a curious feeling, isn’t it?”
Barbara smiled faintly. “Thank you, Mr. Sheringham,” she said, lifting the cosies off an array of silver that stood at one end of the table. “Shall I give you tea or coffee?”
“Coffee, please. Tea with breakfast is like playing Stravinsky on a mouth organ. It doesn’t go. Well, what’s the programme today? Tennis from eleven to one; from two to four tennis; between five and seven a little tennis; and after dinner talk about tennis. Something like that?”
“Don’t you like tennis, Mr. Sheringham?” asked Barbara innocently.
“Like it? I love it. One of these days I must get someone to teach me how to play it. What are you doing this morning, for instance, Alec?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m not doing,” Alec grinned, “and that’s playing tennis with you.”
“And why not, you ungrateful blighter, after all I’ve done for you?” demanded Roger indignantly.
“Because when I play that sort of game I play cricket,” Alec retorted. “Then you have fielders all round to stop the balls. It saves an awful lot of trouble.”
Roger turned to Barbara. “Do you hear that, Barbara? I appeal to you. My tennis may perhaps be a little strenuous, but—Oh, hullo, Major. We were just thinking about getting up a four for tennis. Are you game?”
The newcomer, a tall, sallow, taciturn sort of person, bowed slightly to Barbara. “Good morning, Miss Shannon. Tennis, Sheringham? No, I’m sorry, but I’m much too busy this morning.”
He went to the sideboard, inspected the dishes gravely, and helped himself to some fish. Scarcely had he taken his seat with it than the door opened again and the butler entered.
“Can I speak to you a moment, please, sir?” asked the latter in a low voice.
The Major glanced up. “Me, Graves? Certainly.” He rose from his seat and followed the other out of the room.
“Poor Major Jefferson!” Barbara observed.
“Yes,” said Roger with feeling. “I’m glad I haven’t got his job. Old Stanworth’s an excellent sort of fellow as a host, but I don’t think I should care for him as an employer. Eh, Alec?”
“Jefferson seems to have his hands pretty full. It’s a pity, because he really plays a dashed good game of tennis. By the way, what would you call him exactly? A private secretary?”
“Sort of, I suppose,” said Roger. “And everything else as well. A general dogsbody for the old man. Rotten job.”
“Isn’t it rather funny to find an army man in a post like that?” Barbara asked, more for the sake of something to say than anything; the atmosphere was still a little strained. “I thought when you left the army, you had a pension.”
“So you do,” Roger returned. “But pensions don’t amount to much in any case. Besides, I rather fancy that Stanworth likes having a man in the job with a certain social standing attached to him. Oh, yes; I’ve no doubt that he finds Jefferson uncommonly useful.”
“Surly sort of devil though, isn’t he?” observed Alec. “Can I have another cup of coffee, please, Barbara?”
“Oh, he’s all right,” Roger pronounced. “But I wouldn’t like to be out with that butler alone on a dark night.”
“He’s the most extraordinary butler I’ve ever seen,” said Barbara with decision, manipulating the coffeepot. “He positively frightens me at times. He looks more like a prizefighter than a butler. What do you think, Mr. Sheringham?”
“As a matter of fact, you’re perfectly right, Barbara,” Alec put in. “He is an old boxer. Jefferson told me. Stanworth took him on for some reason years ago, and he’s been with him ever since.”
“I’d like to see a scrap between him and you, Alec,” Roger murmured bloodthirstily. “There wouldn’t be much to choose between you.”
“Thanks,” Alec laughed. “Not today, I think. He’d simply wipe the floor with me. He could give me nearly a stone, I should say.”
“And you’re no chicken. Ah, well, if you ever think better of it, let me know. I’ll
